Beautiful Liar
by MagpieTales
Summary: Written for the WA Drabble Challenge, which was to make a story out of 100-word drabbles. A gothic New England tale for Halloween, in which you may spot our favourite Maker and Child. (See my profile for more.)
1. Beautiful Liar

The Babbit house squatted on a hill, peering down over mournful pines, its shingle sides sun-bleached in summer, drizzle-damped in fall. Travelers on the road below who glimpsed its dark windows through drooping branches sensed an alien presence within, a watchfulness, toad-like and unblinking, and, shivering, hurried past.

Locals shunned the house too, particularly on nights when the moon rose high and fog swirled around the trees. No youngsters dared each other to explore it on long, idle summer days. No vagrant took shelter there from bitter New England winters, though the house had lain empty for five of them.

~~00~~

They arrived by road, one moonless night.

Carthorses snorted up the hill. Wagons creaked with furniture, with chests of fine linen, tableware and clothes, with parcels of books, candlesticks and sundries—everything necessary to equip a household. Including a butler; his wife, the housekeeper; his daughter, the maid; and his young nephew, the houseboy.

The new owners took possession. Overnight, the house went from dank and dreary to fashionable and inhabited. Holes in the shingles disappeared. A sign went up at the roadside: _J__o__h__an__s__s__en._

The house no longer invoked a chill dread. Yet it remained aloof, forbidding of casual visitors.

~~00~~

Daniel and Hank had been in Portland three weeks by then. They'd swept into town on the new train, flush from their successes in Boston, and landed at the Cumberland. A good, solid hotel to advertise their wealth. Modest rooms to demonstrate prudence. Hank was all for living high on the hog, but Daniel argued discretion.

Wouldn't do to make potential investors suspicious. The Panic of 1837 was fourteen years since, but folks had long memories up here.

Hank kicked up a stink about being his manservant, but Daniel got his way on that too. Just like he always did.

~~00~~

Silver-tongued little devil, Mam called him, angry fists on her hips or affectionate arms around him. Could charm honey from a wasp, she'd tease. Or gold from a leprechaun.

Danny grew into Daniel, a handsome son of a gun. Advantageous in his chosen field of endeavor, that was. Although the more handsome he got, the more ready Mam was to cuff his head or clip his ear.

Looked too much like his dead father, he figured out eventually.

He inherited his Irish charm from Mam, along with his blue, blue eyes. His gift for figures though, that was all Papa.

~~00~~

Hank poured brandy for Briden, lit Curwen's cigar. The parlor filled with smoke and hearty laughter. He melted into the background, invisible.

Hank didn't care. He liked his victuals, liked his liquor, but liked most of all watching Daniel work, his slim hands quick, his sharp mind quicker, supplying words that coaxed and tempted, and inspired greed.

Hank's hands were like spades and his tongue was only quick in anger. Fast as lightning with a fist or a knife though, which had saved Danny boy there more than once.

Hank was half in love with Daniel, but neither knew it.

~~00~~

Papa was Italian. An insurance agent, prosperous. As a kid, Danny had servants, regular schooling, security. Then the Great Fire burnt his future down with the Manhattan docks.

Papa lost everything. The following winter took his life.

Hard times came. Rooms in a drafty boardinghouse, the wailing of younger siblings. Bread where there was once meat. Flint in Mam's eyes where once there was laughter. She took in sewing. Later men, but the streets had swallowed Daniel by then.

That golden childhood, snatched so cruelly away, planted seeds. Arrogance. A hunger for riches.

The world owed Daniel. It would pay.

~~00~~

Hank flopped onto a chair and let out a whoop. "You got 'em hooked, Danny boy. Time to reel those fat fishes in."

"Briden and Whateley, to be sure." Pulling his necktie loose, Daniel sprawled on a horsehair couch. "Curwen is still vacillating."

His feet on the table, Hank swigged brandy straight from the bottle. "Ah, you'll hook that bastard. Easy."

Danny grunted around a half-smoked cigar. Lazy blue smoke rings drifted up to join the haze. "Reckon I'll attend the widow's little _soiree, _after all. Kill two birds."

"Aw, hell. We gonna drag her into this?"

"If she bites."

~~00~~

Two Irishmen, David Hanrahan and Charlie Doyle, boarded the train in Boston. Daniel Balfour, a well-to-do gent, and his manservant, Hank Finnegan, got off in Portland.

Their own Christian names. In case Hank called him Danny again, the big eejit.

Balfour. English with Scottish roots. In case his accent wavered.

Unlikely. Daniel was an excellent mimic. He could put on the airs and graces of a duke. His outfit was well-tailored, his boots new, his coat thick. If Hank was a thug and Daniel carried a revolver, what of it?

Thieves were ten a penny in this savage new country.

~~00~~

She wore blue the first time he saw her.

A silk gown. Shoulders bare, unblemished. Golden hair swept to the sides, delicate sapphire earrings. White gloves. Beauty so sharp it stole his tongue. Daniel forgot Widow Danforth at his elbow, forgot the game.

He asked for a dance.

She was reserved, elegant. He felt clumsy, awkward.

Later, he came upon her in a side-room. A flurry of silk, lace handkerchief dabbing her mouth, a maid stepping away. Before he'd formed words to flirt, a man filled the door. Tall, fierce, hair to match hers. Commanding, sharp words.

"Pamela. Come. Now."

~~00~~

Gossip spread fastest servant to servant, so Hank asked around.

The Johanssens. New in town, a brother and sister. Not Dutch as the name suggested. Swedish. Inherited a fat juicy fortune from their father, recently deceased. Lumber trade. The brother was expanding into pastures new, or rather forests. They'd taken a house out of town.

Hank cracked his knuckles. "Ripe for the plucking."

"Yes," Daniel murmured, thoughtful. _Unmarried_. An heiress. Silk and sapphires.

Hank didn't mention his run-in with the butler, the strange yellow flare in his eyes, the growl that turned Hank's bowels to water. Nothing scared Hank. Ever.

~~00~~

A simple green goods game. Convince the mark you could, for a fee, conjure money out of air. Undetectable counterfeits, say. Something illegal, or verging on. Less incentive to report you then.

Take their money.

Leave them a bag of straw.

Or worthless deeds for a tract of non-existent land outside Manhattan. Ripe for building on, going for a steal. Daniel penned a good forgery. Good enough to part those greedy fools in Boston from their money, anyway.

Portland, it was an investment opportunity. San Francisco was booming, the gold rush in full swing. Where better to build a hotel?

~~00~~

Poker. Briden's back room. Whiskey, flouting the recent law. Coins and bills ebbing and flowing between players, fickle as the sea. Daniel had no tells but those he allowed for misdirection. He could read Briden and Whateley. Beat them blindfolded, if he wished.

But not Johanssen. That dour bastard was carved from granite.

The others folded. Daniel raised.

Johanssen raked in the pot.

So it went, hand after hand. Pride kept Daniel in the game. Finally, his luck turned. Johanssen lost.

Badly. Left snarling, glass overturned, cards scattered.

Sweet victory.

Two jacks on the floor, whiskey-sodden, unseen. Winning cards unplayed.

~~00~~

Running a game came easy as breathing. It set Daniel's pulse racing, his eyes shining. Best thrill in the world. There was something magic about it. Spinning falsehoods into truth, weaving that spell.

It took more than charm, though. It took nerve. Daring. You needed a pair on you to fabricate a lie so big and dazzling that it swallowed the marks whole.

Sometimes the spell didn't take. He'd upset some dangerous men back in Manhattan. Two gangs baying for his blood.

Even Irish luck ran out.

But notoriety was its own thrill. And Boston had gone like a dream.

~~00~~

She wore red the second time he saw her.

Deep red velvet. Sensual, alluring. Against it, her skin was pale as porcelain.

The brother was in the ballroom, but she was absent. So he'd gone looking, found her in an empty side-room. Reclining on a chaise lounge, listless, that scrap of lace pressed to her lips.

She was ill.

Daniel fetched brandy. She set it down, untouched. Her eyes were bright, too bright. Her hands were ice. She denied infirmity, brushed aside his concerns, excused herself.

But not before he'd seen.

Blood spotted that lace. Consumption. Death. Slow, wasting, inevitable.

~~00~~

Daniel called at the house. The butler took his card, sneered. The Mistress was out.

_Li__e_.

Someone was singing in the garden. A young girl, hanging laundry. Shapely from behind. Daniel hailed her, all friendly smiles. She looked over her shoulder. Buckteeth, freckles.

And a bruise blossoming on her cheek.

"Your father do that?"

"No! He'd never!"

"Your mother?"

"No." Softer. A glance at the house, fearful.

Dread."The Master?"

Her silence said _yes_. Did the bastard beat his sister too? Daniel swallowed curses. He flattered; the girl talked. The Mistress would be home after dark. The Master would be out.

~~00~~

The housekeeper let Daniel in. The butler was in town, with Johanssen.

Pamela received him in the drawing room. She was paler than ever, eyes glittering bright in the firelight. Such clear blue eyes. They seemed huge in that delicate face.

He took her hand. She didn't pull away.

He spoke soft, soothing words, questioned gently. She allowed that she'd been ill, insisted that she was better, absolutely refused to entertain a single word against her brother. Erik was her rock, her only protector in this cruel world.

They parted with a kiss. His heart soared.

And so it began.

~~00~~

The game was proceeding apace.

Briden and Whateley were all in, sweetened by promises to buy drapery and linens from their import company. A couple of bit-players too. Even the widow had scraped a stake together, though it wasn't much. Hank was sore about that, said it was awful cruel to rob an old woman. As if Danforth was in her dotage, not forty and perfectly hale.

The gold and silver was secured in the cast iron strong box Hank had gotten when they arrived. Dangling a contract for hotel furnishings had Curwen almost persuaded, but Johanssen was proving tricky.

~~00~~

Daniel was in heaven.

_Pamela_. The lovely, exquisite Pamela.

The dim candlelit parlor, the crackling fire. The silk of her shoulder, the taste of her neck. Her mouth on his, her teeth. She was intoxicating. It was no trouble to woo her, no trouble at all.

They met almost nightly. Johanssen was out all hours. Working so hard, she said. To provide for them.

Daniel scoffed silently. More like carousing and gambling, the dissolute scoundrel. Some protector he was. But if licentiousness and liquor kept him from the house, leaving his sister vulnerable to Daniel's advances, so much the better.

~~00~~

A man in violent, passionate love is blind to many things.

Daniel was blind to the growing circles under his eyes, the deepening pallor of his skin and the grinding fatigue that crept over him. Each time he visited the house, visited the lovely Pamela, these symptoms increased.

There were bruises under his collar. He did not see them. There were unexplained cuts upon his neck. He did not feel them. There was a murkiness to his memories, gaps in his mind. He did not question them.

He believed Pamela was falling under his spell. He was already under hers.

~~00~~

Pamela was stiff, hesitant. Not her usual graceful self. Blood smeared her sleeve. Her hem was torn. And she winced with each breath.

He grabbed her arm, furious. "He broke your ribs? I'll break his bloody neck."

She protested.

"Good God, woman. He'll kill you! Can't you see that? You have to leave him."

She refused, proud, haughty.

He argued, cajoled, pleaded. Finally he bellowed: "Marry me!"

Not a game. Not marrying a dying heiress to inherit her gold. He meant it.

"I have money. You have your jewels. Come with me. To San Francisco."

Eyes gleaming, intense, she agreed.

~~00~~

Hank was vexed.

They had passage booked, two days hence. Johanssen still hadn't cracked. Time was running out.

Danny was working the sister, so he said. Leverage. Yet here he stood, jabbering about broken ribs, about saving her. How they had enough for three, how she was coming with them.

He must be feverish. He looked terrible.

"Talk sense, Danny. How's that gonna work? She doesn't know what we are. Once she finds out—"

"I'm marrying her."

"You are not."

"I am too."

Hank punched him, square in the eye. Felled him like a tree. Daniel would never understand why.

~~00~~

Midnight. The appointed hour.

Pamela paced the drawing room, carpetbag in hand, her coat thrown over a chair. Daniel embraced her, relieved. She was cold, taut.

"The jewels?"

She nodded, lifted the bag.

"Let's be away."

A clatter on the stairs. Candles gusted. Johanssen, from nowhere. Daniel clutched the revolver in his coat, fired through the cloth. Blood flowered on a white shirt.

Johanssen didn't fall.

He roared. Deep, terrifying, inhuman. Fangs burst from his jaw. Demon! Monster!

"Stay back, abomination!" Daniel scrabbled to free his gun.

Iron hands grabbed him. Pamela. Her eyes. So blue. The world fell away.

~~00~~

"Erik!" Pam flew across the room.

"Why is he armed?" he gritted out.

"I didn't know, I swear." She tore his shirt open, dug for the lead. "You couldn't dodge?"

He snarled.

"Got it!" She dropped the bullet, sucked her fingers, offered her wrist.

"No need. I fed." His chest was already healing.

"Darcy didn't get shot rescuing his eloping sister, you know."

"You are not my sister. And don't be impertinent."

"Yes, Master." Chastened, she looked at Daniel, frozen in place. "We really can't keep him? His blood is delicious."

"No. I will return him and fetch our prize."

~~00~~

"Wake up, you drunken eejit!"

Daniel came round, fully clothed, on the horsehair couch. Grey, predawn light.

"Up! Now!" Hank shook him. "There's men from Boston asking after us. We've no time to waste."

Adrenaline chased grogginess away. The gold. Daniel bolted into the bedroom, Hank behind him. They fetched up sharp, stunned.

The strong box was empty.

Ripped open, cast iron peeled back like paper. How? Who?

Shaken, they packed what little they had. At the stables Daniel said, "Go. I'll meet you on the road."

"You're going to her, ain't you." Hank spat, disgusted. "She'll get you hung."

~~00~~

There was no sign at the roadside. Daniel galloped up the hill, threw himself from the saddle. The front door stood open. Leaves blew in the hall. He bellowed for Johanssen. For Pamela.

Silence.

Bare floorboards and echoes greeted him. Dust piled in corners, cobwebs draped the windows, the hearths were stone-cold. The house was deserted.

Nobody had lived here in years.

A stain. On the parlor floor. Blood? He touched it. Memory stirred. _G__unpowder. Ringing in his ears. A white face, __b__lazing eyes. _Nameless dread rose in his throat. Terror, icy and overwhelming.

He ran, and didn't look back.


	2. Epilogue

Daniel did catch up with Hank.

They headed west, to Chicago. Plenty of opportunities, Daniel thought. They ran a couple of games there, but something had shifted between them. They kept bickering. Came to blows twice, too. Daniel never got to the bottom of it, but he thought perhaps Hank was sweet on Sarah, this pretty blonde Daniel was paying court to.

Then they lost too much in the wrong gambling saloon, had to leave town in a hurry. He blamed Hank; Hank blamed him. It was an unpleasant situation all round.

So they parted, and Daniel drifted south alone.

~~00~~

Funny thing. He built that hotel in the end.

Poker set him on that path. He'd been working the Mississippi steamboats for six years or so. Living high, doing as he pleased. Card-sharking, mostly. Sometimes losing, sometimes wining, you know how it goes. Had a run of luck. Earned enough to buy into a high-stakes game.

By some miracle, he won. By an even bigger miracle, nobody shot him. So he quit while he was ahead.

He was feeling his age, frankly. Ready to settle down. Pamela never far from his thoughts, he took a stagecoach west, to San Francisco.

~~00~~

Fog was coming in off the bay. Brandy warming his belly, he took an evening stroll. Men called greetings, doffed their hats. Daniel Russo, hotelier and restaurateur, was well-known. Respectable, important. Married into a good family. Four children, all grown now. A grandchild any day.

Two mistresses.

Approaching seventy, his hair streaked silver, Daniel was still handsome.

And still charming. He was tender with his wife, generous with his mistresses, but it was Pamela who haunted his dreams. Always Pamela. He'd long forgotten the empty house, the inexplicable terror. He remembered only loveliness. Her golden hair, her lips, her eyes.

~~00~~

Raucous shouts, lively piano music. He'd strayed into Chinatown. The street crawled with people. A noisy crowd spilled from a drinking den.

And there she was.

Pamela.

He stopped. Stared.

How could this be? Only her clothes were different. Not her face, still unwrinkled and young. Not her brother, whose arm she hung off. What trickery was this? Had he gone mad?

It was madness to inch closer, straining to hear. But she was laughing. Captivating. Beautiful.

Until she kissed Johanssen, called him husband. Disgust knotted his stomach. Shock clenched at his heart. Broken, hoarse, Daniel cried out her name.

~~00~~

They got him off the street and into an alley, where he slumped against the wall, chest heaving irregularly, eyes glassy. Pam loosened his collar, murmuring soothingly. His pulse didn't settle, even under her glamour.

"Erik," she hissed. "Help me. He's dying."

"It would be better if he did." Erik's voice was hot with supressed anger. "Tell me, Pamela, how is it he knows you? You were to take his memory of us."

She cringed, chastised. "I thought—"

"That you knew better than your Maker. You do not. Disobedient child!" Growling, Erik grabbed Daniel by the shoulders and took charge.

~~00~~

Piercing blue eyes. The wrong eyes. But Daniel couldn't look away, couldn't look for Pamela. The pain dulled. A voice, asking questions. Irresistible, compelling.

Yes, he was alone. Yes, he would be missed.

His life? He was rich, wealthy. He boasted about the hotel, his influence, his power. Told them about his wife, his lovers. How he'd throw them all over, leave it all, if Pamela would only agree to be his. She'd only to give him a sign.

The eyes released him.

Pamela. She pressed against him. Cold lips on his, a hand slipping into his coat.

Joy. Euphoria.

~~00~~

As Pamela listened to the old man's stuttering words, his gasping breaths, her face had tightened, appalled.

"You see?" Erik had said, harsh. "You see how remembering you twisted his life out of shape. This is what I have been trying to teach you. We are above them. They are cattle. We are the lion. We burn too bright, too fierce. They cannot endure us."

"Yes, Master."

"Don't cry. Not here."

She scrubbed a bloody tear away with a scrap of lace, scowling.

Erik softened. "His heartbeat is erratic. He doesn't have long. Make his last memory a good one."

~~00~~

A gathering crowd, a body on the sidewalk. A gentleman. Apoplexy. A pretty blonde, speaking to a police captain. Too distressed to give her name.

Daniel's wife saw it play out as she stood, stiff-backed, greeting mourners. She'd laid on a decent wake for the old goat. At the hotel, naturally. The Sapphire. He would never say what inspired that name.

One of his Jezebels, probably.

She knew, of course. A wife always knows. Only one thing puzzled her: the handkerchief she'd found in his pocket. Tiny, exquisite stitching. Almost unnatural. What sort of mistress owned such beautiful antique lace?


End file.
